Disarm

by Halle, Karina

  And so I don’t say anything. But I’m afraid one day I will.

  I’m also afraid I won’t.

  That I’ll live my whole life without ever telling them how I really feel and what I really know.

  All this money, all this luxury, all this power that’s built into the Dumont name and legacy is all fake. My family has done horrible, wicked things to get to where they are.

  The sad thing is, I’m no better than them, and I don’t even want to try. I’ll cheat and lie and steal and blackmail my way to the top too. I’ll just be a little more honest about it. I might be young, but I’ve seen enough to know age doesn’t excuse anything.

  There’s a knock at the door. My room is large, and the sound echoes across the wood floors and cold stone walls. I live in a stupidly large maison on the outskirts of Paris. It’s practically a castle, which isn’t unusual for a family with a lot of wealth. It used to be my great-grandfather’s and then his son’s, passed down from generation to generation just like the Dumont business. It probably should have gone to my uncle since he’s always been more of a family man, but I’m told my father snatched it out from under his nose.

  Just as well. There’s nothing you could do to make this place seem warmer.

  The knock resounds again, and I turn away from the windows where I’ve been staring out at the backyard, watching the servants set up for the party. “What?” I ask.

  The door opens, and my mother pokes her head in. It’s early, but she already looks like she’s been to the salon, every strand of her hair perfectly in place, every particle of makeup perfectly applied. Jewels and gold drip from her ears and around her neck. She’s never been your typical Frenchwoman who is careful about showing off her wealth. Instead, she wears her money and stature with pride, a gaudiness that other people make fun of her for, but she clearly couldn’t care. “If they think I’m tacky, fuck them! They’re only jealous.” I’ve heard her yell this at my father often, usually on a bender after too much gin and champagne.

  “You’re not dressed,” she says to me. I’m still in my pajamas. I’ve been awake for hours but haven’t actually gotten out of bed.

  I shrug. “It’s my birthday,” I remind her. “Figured I could do what I want.”

  She cocks a penciled brow. “Blaise, it may be your birthday, but you do have company coming over soon.”

  I groan, running my hands over my face. “It’s nine a.m. on a Saturday. My friends aren’t coming over until later.”

  “Yes, but your uncle, aunt, and cousins are coming over for lunch, and you know you can’t afford to look like a slob in front of them.” There’s a glint of cruelty in her eyes. It’s not unusual for her to start my birthdays—or any day—drinking, and it’s especially not unusual for her to start getting mean. But I already feel like today is different. Perhaps age thirteen is when they throw you to the wolves.

  Might not be a bad thing, I think to myself. As long as the stupid charade is thrown away with me.

  Besides, it’s a known rule in this house that we must look better than my uncle’s family at all costs. “Just give me a bit, okay?”

  She narrows her eyes at my tone but pastes a smile on her face, which stretches tightly. “Take all the time you need. It’s your birthday, after all.”

  She closes the door, and I roll my eyes, flopping back down on the bed. Mind games already. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.

  Just before lunch, and after my mother has nagged me a second time, I head downstairs. The table outside is all set up with a white tablecloth and shining silverware under the olive trees. Nothing is out of place.

  My father is absent and my mother is still running around like a headless chicken, but everyone else seems to have gathered around the table, taking their seats, and at the end of the table is a huge stack of presents.

  I don’t feel anything when I look at them, but knowing my family is looking at me expectantly, I pretend to be happy. Gee, presents. More stuff I don’t need.

  There’s a flurry of activity at my approach. Uncle Luddie is the first one up from his chair, and he envelops me in a tight hug. I’m not used to being hugged, so I straighten up, going stiff.

  “Happy birthday, Blaise,” he says to me before pulling away and patting me on the back. He smells like the Dumont-label aftershave he always wears, a different one from my father’s. “Thirteen is a big deal.”

  He smiles at me. It’s kind of lopsided; my father says that he was hit in the head with a croquet mallet when he was young, but I wonder if that’s true. It’s a kind smile, though, and Uncle Luddie is always handing it out to everyone, even if they don’t deserve it. I certainly don’t.

  I nod, say thank you, and proceed to get a light embrace from my aunt Eloise, who kisses both my cheeks. She smells like roses and radiates warmth. This is why I hate being around my uncle and aunt: it reminds me that I was born to the wrong family. I’m not used to this much affection.

  Or maybe I’m rotten at heart, and my family is what I deserve.

  Then there are my cousins. Thankfully all three of them are cool enough to not try any displays of affection with me. There’s Renaud, who is stone faced and grumpy, like he’s always hungry or something. He’s nice to me, but I don’t really know him that well. Maybe because he’s a lot older—seventeen—and doesn’t say much.

  Then there’s Olivier. Olivier is a year older than me. My mother always remarks on how handsome he will be, as if I’m going to grow up to look like a can of dog food. Olivier is easygoing and always smirking at something, and to be honest, it makes me want to punch him in the face. Why does he get to feel that way and coast through life when every day feels like a struggle to me?

  Finally, there’s Seraphine. She’s not even a real cousin of mine. She’s only ten years old and was adopted last year. I don’t know her that well, either, other than the fact that my mother has said some shitty things about her. She’s from India originally, I think, though she has a British accent. I actually think she could be quite pretty when she gets older, if she wasn’t so tall and awkward with such messy dark hair. Plus she stares at you with these big bug eyes, like she’s always thinking. I don’t think she’s judging you in a bad way, but either way, I don’t like being the subject of her thoughts.

  Right now her eyes are fixed on me, as usual, but at least she doesn’t look put off by me.

  I take the seat across from her, beside my brother, Pascal. I’m surprised he’s even here; he’s usually off somewhere else, pretending I don’t exist.

  “I didn’t get you a present,” Pascal says to me under his breath. “Sorry.”

  I glance at him, and he’s smiling, not sorry at all.

  I shrug. “I never want presents anyway.”

  “That’s because you have everything.”

  “So do you,” I point out, lowering my voice once I realize Seraphine has been staring at us in awe. Apparently she was adopted from an orphanage, and so maybe she’s never even seen so many presents before.

  Pascal looks over at Seraphine and frowns. “What are you looking at?” he snaps at her.

  “Pascal,” my aunt says quickly, giving him a tight smile. “Let’s all be nice on your brother’s birthday.” My own parents would never try to talk back to him in public like this; they prefer to do that in private and in much harsher ways. But my aunt and uncle have been dealing with Pascal since he was born, and even though it’s a tightrope to walk, it seems to work.

  It’s working right now, anyway. Pascal doesn’t look remotely ashamed, but at least he leaves Seraphine alone. She has shrunk back in her chair, trying to avoid looking at us.

  It feels like an eternity before my parents come out. They bring a tiered cake, which is made even more ridiculous by the fact that they have another cake for tonight’s party. Always with the excess.

  Everyone starts singing “Bonne Fête,” and I should feel embarrassed, but honestly, I feel nothing at all. I just want this to end, to go to my room, and forget
about everything and everyone.

  But it’s impossible. My aunt encourages Olivier to “play” with me, as if we’re children, as if I didn’t just become a teenager today. I show him some of the stuff I’ve gotten lately, like a remote control car, which is top of the line and does laps around the yard, and we occasionally chase Seraphine down with it until my real guests show up and the actual party begins.

  I have a fair number of friends, but none that I’m particularly close to. Most of them are rich as fuck—birds of a feather, as my father often says. My only good friend is Jean, whose father fucked off when he was young and who has only his mother raising him and doesn’t have a lot of money. My parents hate the fact that I’m friends with him—not just because he’s poor, but because they say he’s a bad influence.

  Considering right now we’re sneaking around the yard to the gazebo so we can drink the liquor he stole from his house, my parents probably have a point. It’s evening now, and we have the cover of darkness on our side.

  I’ve never gotten drunk before. I’ve had wine on some special occasions, but I didn’t care for the taste. But now that we’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shadowy gazebo, having escaped the party, I’m eagerly reaching for the bottle.

  “You’re thirteen now,” Jean says as he hands it to me. “My mother says that’s when you become a man. So you better drink up.”

  I pull the cork off and smell it. It causes my eyes to roll back in my head and reminds me a lot of my mother. I eye the bottle. It’s some sort of almond liquor, so it’s not even that strong. Not the big-league stuff, but it will have to do.

  I take a deep breath before bringing the bottle to my mouth and swallowing some. It burns and I start to cough. By the time Jean takes the bottle back, the burning has turned into sweetness. It’s actually not that bad.

  I’m about to encourage him to try it, but he’s already taking a giant swig. He coughs, too, and then laughs.

  And then things get a little fuzzy. We drink a lot of the bottle, just hiding out in the darkness, hearing the music blaring—some kind of abrasive rock Pascal most likely put on that my mother will turn off soon. I should feel bad that I’m missing my own birthday party, but the more I drink, the less I care. Maybe this is why my mother does it all the time.

  “Oh shit!” Jean swears harshly as he gets on his knees and peers through the fence of the gazebo. “I think your father is coming!”

  I freeze, staring at the bottle in my hands and then back up at my father’s silhouette, which is quickly approaching us. “Blaise!” he bellows, and the rage in his voice nearly makes me pee my pants.

  “What do we do?” I ask Jean, but Jean is getting to his feet and jumping over the gazebo railing and running off across the yard and around to the front, leaving me and the bottle. Fucking coward just ditched me!

  “I see you, Jean!” my father yells after him. “Running, just as your daddy ran from you.”

  Jesus, he’s being so harsh. I hope Jean didn’t hear that. I have a feeling that he’ll never be allowed back to the house after this.

  But none of that really matters right now because if my father catches me drunk . . .

  I quickly toss the bottle behind me into the bushes along the other side and then hear a sharp but quiet “Ow!” as it lands on someone.

  I whirl around and see only movement in the bushes. It was a girl’s voice. Could it have been Seraphine? Did I hurt her?

  But before I can even think about investigating, my father is entering the gazebo and looming above me.

  “Get up,” he says to me, his voice low and eerily calm. The kind of calm that makes shivers run down my spine and my heart turn into a loud drum in my head.

  I stare up at him, so scared that I can’t move.

  “I said, get up,” my father says again. I can’t see his face, I can only see the shadows. For a moment he looks like a monster, the kind that shape-shifts in inky blackness. I expect to see a flash of red eyes.

  Then, with lightning speed, he reaches down and grabs me by the arm and yanks me up to my feet until it feels like he’s going to pull my arm right off.

  I know I shouldn’t show any weakness, but I’m screeching with pain.

  He yanks me right up to his face, and I see a glimpse of his eyes, just a bit of light glinting off them. I’ve never been so terrified.

  “Just as I thought,” he snarls as he breathes in deep. “You’ve been drinking. You’re drunk.”

  “I’m not,” I try to say, but before I can further my feeble protest, he pulls back momentarily and slams his palm against my temple, rocking my world and sending me backward onto the floor. Everything inside my head explodes into jagged stars, and I scream in pain.

  “Shut up,” he says, almost hissing. “And get up. You want to be a man? You think that because you’re thirteen, you’re a man now? You can get drunk at your own party? Then stand up and take it like a man, Blaise. Come on. Get up.”

  I can barely hear, barely comprehend him. My father has hit me before on a few occasions, but they were usually a slap across the cheek or, when I was younger, the belt across my ass. But he’s never hit me like this, with hatred and venom in his eyes.

  What if he kills me?

  “Get up, Blaise. If you don’t, you’ll regret it forever. You want me to be proud of you? You own up to your mistakes, and you get to your feet after you’ve been knocked down.”

  I have no doubt I’ll regret it forever. My father doesn’t give empty threats.

  So I get up. I don’t know how I do it. Maybe the hit rattled my brain cells. Maybe the booze already killed them off. But I get to my feet unsteadily.

  He leans in. “Look me in the eye,” he says in a low voice.

  I do. His eyes are both calm and wild and completely unpredictable. I don’t know what is about to happen, but I know that he’s looking for something inside me, maybe to see who I really am and what I really deserve.

  I hold his gaze and defiantly raise my chin, trying to pretend to be better than this, to be strong.

  It is a mistake.

  He hits me again, this time a backhand across my cheek, until tears squeeze out of my eyes and things turn swimmy and black.

  Somehow I manage to stay upright, and I think that’s why he stops.

  “Don’t lie to me, Blaise,” he says after he composes himself, slicking back his black hair and straightening his tie. “Don’t ever lie to me. If you think you aren’t being watched, you are and always will be. You have to earn your father’s trust, do you understand that now? And since you broke it, I fear it’s going to remain broken for a long time.”

  You trust Pascal, you never had to put him through any of this, I think angrily, but I don’t dare say it. I never will. I hate to imagine what that would earn me.

  “Now if anyone asks you what happened, I dare you to tell them why. Explain why you deserved it. You won’t find any pity from anyone, only disgust at what you have done. Now, I’m going back to your party, and I’m sending everyone home. If you’re out here getting drunk with that half-wit, you don’t deserve those kids as friends anyway.”

  He turns around and strolls out of the gazebo and across the grass and back to the party.

  I just stand there, torn between wanting to pull my hair out and scream or collapse to the floor and cry. Neither seems like a good choice.

  Then I hear a shuffle in the bushes behind me and turn to see Seraphine step out, her hand at the side of her head.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, spying on me?” I sneer at her, trying not to sniffle, trying to hold it together. I’m further humiliated now, the fact that this little girl saw all that.

  “I was here first,” she says quietly in English. “And you threw a bottle at my head.”

  “That was an accident,” I tell her, refusing to feel bad about it. Who cares if it hit her? I’m the one who was just smacked around by my own father.

  But when she makes her way around the gazebo to the e
ntrance, she’s still holding her head and looking like she’s in pain. I feel guilty.

  Yet I still say, “Get out of here.”

  “What does being drunk feel like?” she asks, staring at me with those big eyes of hers.

  I shake my head, not wanting to talk to her anymore. “It feels like none of your business,” I say, waving her away as I turn my back to her.

  There’s a pause in the air.

  “My mother was an alcoholic. It’s why she died. My father was too. He didn’t die, though, he just couldn’t take care of me. That’s why I was an orphan.”

  Against my better judgment, I say, “I thought you were born in India. Why do you have a British accent?”

  She takes a step into the gazebo. “My father took me over to England. Outside London. I don’t think he was supposed to, and that’s when the social services took me away from him and put me in an orphanage.”

  “They still have those? I thought that was something from Annie or Oliver Twist.”

  She nods, still staring at me with those eyes. “I was in different foster families but would always end up there when it didn’t work out.”

  “Why didn’t they want you? Too ugly?” Though I’m smirking as I say it, the part inside me that wants to be mean to her shrivels a little.

  She doesn’t flinch. “Some were nice. Most weren’t. Most hit me just like your dad did. Maybe even worse.”

  I raise my brows in surprise. “Really? Worse? Like what?”

  She comes over to me and sits down on the floor, holding her knees up to her chest. She tilts her head down so that her bangs fall in front of her eyes and stares at the floor. “Sometimes,” she says, her voice so quiet that I have to sit down next to her, “this one lady—her name was Jane, but I don’t even think that was her real name. She wouldn’t let me eat. Only if her husband was around would she act like everything was normal, but if he wasn’t, she wouldn’t give me breakfast or lunch or dinner or anything. Instead she made me watch as she ate. Said I was too fat and it would teach me.”